It prefers barren soil.
It prefers land that is dry.
It prefers to grow
without protection of trees.
The larkspur doesn’t want to compete.
It simply grows where others don’t grow,
brings beauty to the lonely ground.
It grows tall—tall enough
that the weight of its petals
might bend the stem,
might force a fall.
It says to me as I walk by,
there are many ways
to serve the world,
bringing beauty is one.
Archive for July, 2022
Larkspur
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, wildflower on July 22, 2022| 10 Comments »
Van Gogh Talks About The Night Café
Posted in Uncategorized on July 21, 2022| 4 Comments »
inspired by the painting The Night Café, his letters, and the piano composition “Red Café” by Kayleen Asbo It can’t all be sunflowers and haystacks and fishing boats. It can’t all be seascapes and still lifes with quince. Sometimes the rooms I paint are blood red, ugly rooms filled with violence and loneliness. And the people who come here are drunkards and derelicts. They huddle in blue despair. They’re down and outs and prostitutes, they’re “sleeping hooligans in dreary rooms.” They slouch and they steal. They drink some more. And the gas lights stare like sour yellow eyes. The floor seems to ripple and the tables seem to weave. And I enter in headlong though I try to leave. And I try to leave, but the chairs are empty and they call me in saying, Here is a place where you can ruin yourself. Come, give in to ruin. Go mad. Come go mad. Come sin. Won’t you sin? Won’t you come in? Come in. Come in. And when it crashes, oh, it crashes, and it all falls down. But I tasted it, sweet chaos, ardent decay, and now that I know it, it never goes away. * My dear friend composer/pianist/historian Kayleen Asbo and I want to offer you the video recording of our hour-long conversation about Vincent Van Gogh, loss and The Art of Creative Collaboration– click here.This project has been such an important part for each of us in holding on to hope and beauty during a dark and challenging time. If it speaks to a part of your own aching soul and you want to share it, you have our blessing to forward it to whomever you wish. If you want to offer a donation in support of our work so that we can professionally record our project in both audio and video format, click here for our Go Fund Me account. If you want to engage in the full collaboration–Vincent’s paintings, Kayleen’s music, and my poems–I hope you will join us in “Love Letters to Vincent” on July 29, the day Vincent died, at 11 a.m. mountain time. We will present the entire collaboration, sending love letters back in time to honor this man who changed the way we see beauty. There will also be a chance to participate in a group creative activity, responding to his work, creating a giant love letter for Vincent. Sliding scale. It will be recorded and sent to all who register. |
At Five
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communion, connection, self, showing up, tree, younger self on July 19, 2022| 3 Comments »
Along the lake and down the hill,
the road dead ended into a meadow
with a wooden fence a girl could slip through,
and slip through she did,
that five-year-old version of me,
slipped through the gaps into the tall green grass
and then wandered to the lake
where the weeping willow hung over the shoreline
and she could sit beneath its shade and disappear—
or perhaps more rightly, she could show up.
As herself. Show up not as a girl who lived up the road
but as shade, as shore, as tree,
as field, as green beyond the fence.
Perhaps it only happened once or twice,
that journey past the dead end,
but forty-seven years later, I remember
the dissolution, how beneath that tree
I was no longer who I was, only more so.
How I knew myself as integral to the miracle.
There were whole decades I forgot her,
that infinite version of me.
Tonight I can tell she never left.
How did she ever fit in my limited sense of self?
What does she have to teach me now
of fences, of shadows,
of sitting quietly,
of the art of slipping through?
Stitching It Together
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged attention, beauty on July 19, 2022| 8 Comments »
In our imperfect world/ we are meant to repair/ and stitch together/ what beauty there is
—Stuart Kestenbaum, “Holding the Light”
Today I gather the morning light
as it angles gold across the lawn.
I gather the scent of fennel fronds
in the garden and the surprising sweetness
of the one-bite strawberries
and the softness of the shawl
I thought was lost, but today I found.
I gather the weight of my daughter
as she leans into me on the couch
and the smooth burn of rye whiskey
and the purr of the cat as she naps
deeper into my lap, and I stitch
them together with the thread
of my attention.
Long ago, I learned what I focus on
creates me. Not that I ignore the bindweed,
the news, the drought, the young raccoon
dead beside the road. I do not turn away
from the stories that make me weep.
I am willing to be ferocious—
to stand up for what I know is true.
But I study what is beautiful,
what is generous. I offer it my devotion.
Even in this moment writing this poem,
I stitch in the pauses and the stumblings—
these, too, are beautiful because they are true.
I stitch in the pure potential that steeps
in uncertainty. I stitch in silence. I stitch in hope.
Happy Dance!
Posted in Uncategorized on July 17, 2022| 4 Comments »
I have long loved The Daily Good–life-affirming, soul-nourishing news of the world. And today, it was my thrill to find one of my own poems highlighted there!! Thank you to Daily Good! If you don’t know it yet, check it out! Thank you to A Network for Grateful Living for posting the poem, from where it was syndicated, (and to Braided Way Magazine for publishing it first!). My heart is all giddy today to feel as if I could contribute to this organization I love!
Here’s the link to the poem–about tenderness, compassion, grief and generosity of spirit.
Sometimes When I Catch Myself
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, humanness, judgment on July 17, 2022| 4 Comments »
Sometimes when I catch myself
judging someone else—
a stranger or perhaps a beloved—
I imagine my son and father watching me,
not looking down from above,
I imagine them looking out from inside me.
I don’t worry I am disappointing them—
I feel certain they would be generous with me.
See how human she is, they might say,
loving me despite my humanness,
because my humanness.
In that moment of imagining,
I feel myself soften,
feel my heart unfurl like a new leaf in spring,
feel how possible it is to be generous
with the humanness of myself and others
and the relief it brings.
In that moment, it is easy to be alive.
Easy to notice my annoyance
and be gentle with the self who gets annoyed.
Easy to touch my palm to my heart
and know it as the palm of my son,
the palm of my father,
reminding me how truly I want to walk it,
this path of compassion.
One Mysterious Weaving
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged feather, grief, loss, oneness, shadow, sign on July 16, 2022| 4 Comments »
on the brightest day
the shadows steep darker—
winging through them
on imperceptible wind
a white feather
On My Daughter’s Fourteenth Birthday
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, daughter, healing, thriving, tree, wound on July 15, 2022| 10 Comments »
Though she has been shaped
by pain, she thrives.
She is like a tree, now,
that remembers its wounds
and grows differently
because of its injuries,
some of them deep,
yet is no less vigorous
as it grows new healthy wood,
as it reaches for sun,
as it grounds into the soil,
as it offers its fruit
to the world.
The Invitation of the Old Church Tower
Posted in Uncategorized on July 15, 2022| 3 Comments »
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh’s painting “The Peasants’ Churchyard” (1885) and Kayleen Asbo’s piano composition “Old Tower”
Can you hear them, too,
the bells that don’t ring
in the missing steeple
of the ruined church?
Can you hear them, the stifled
sobs of the mothers
not kneeling beside
the old graves?
And the crows as they circle
the crumbling tower,
can you make out their dissonant
caws?
I hear them, the bells,
like a summoning.
Come listen, they say.
Come stand in this field
until you can hear
the long-silenced shouts
of the men who once tilled here,
the men who laid bricks.
Come stand here and listen
’til even the shadows
sing,
listen until
you can hear yourself
listening.
*
My dear friend composer/pianist/historian Kayleen Asbo and I want to offer you the video recording of our hour-long conversation about Vincent Van Gogh, loss and The Art of Creative Collaboration– click here.This project has been such an important part for each of us in holding on to hope and beauty during a dark and challenging time. If it speaks to a part of your own aching soul and you want to share it, you have our blessing to forward it to whomever you wish.
If you want to offer a donation in support of our work so that we can professionally record our project in both audio and video format, click here for our Go Fund Me account.
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
970-729-1838wordwoman.com
Watch my TEDx talk The Art of Changing Metaphors: TEDX Rosemerry Trommer
Play! An Online Poetry Thoughtshop
Posted in Uncategorized on July 13, 2022| Leave a Comment »
Wednesday July 20, 6 p.m. Mountain Time
That’s right. Writing for pleasure. In this 45-minute webinar-style thoughtshop, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer will read poems that make us laugh and shake our heads and open our hearts and feel good, and then in that vein, we’ll write. Of course, there will be a dark underbelly. Let’s tickle it. With each poem she discusses, she will also offer prompts to help you make a playground out of your own blank pages.
Hosted by SHFYT at Mile High, this program is held on zoom. once you register, you will receive a link. After the event, participants receive a link to the video, plus links to find all the poems.
To purchase a ticket: When you click register, you will be prompted to create an online account with Mindbody. Simply use your email and a password you would like to use. If you have an account but forgot your password, select “forgot password” and follow the prompts.
If you have any issues signing up, please call SHYFT at (720) 486-9798. They will get back to you within 48 hours and always by the day of the workshop.
$12.
*